Death of The Sunset
by Medrae
Summary: When something goes wrong on their mission, America and England find themselves in medieval Europe, where war is waging. They have to find each other before they get killed by themselves, and, before erasing the whole history and nations within it. Time travel AU. Rated T for (character) death, blood, cursing and violence.
1. Chapter 1: Dagger

A silent groan escaped from his lips. He opened his eyes, looking around. Battlefield was now muddy, but there wasn't any bodies. Only he and England were there. The sun was peaking through the grey clouds.

 _"L_ _ove is a weakness."_

America groaned again, grimacing when he sat up. He felt dull pain in his chest, but he ignored it. The wound would heal in matter of minutes, or even in seconds, if it was made by a human being. His red and white leather armor was bloody and muddy. His sword was somewhere nearby. Where he even was? Only thing America remembered was running, shooting and then jumping through something... And now he was here.

 _"It was your fault."_

Suddenly, the superpower coughed vehemently and something red and sticky splattered on the ground. It was blood, America realized to his horror. What had happened to him? His hands traveled to his chest, and he found the wound. It was a bullet hole.

Now the young nation remembered. He'd been shot. Then, a thought crossed his mind. How he was going to get it out? He didn't have first aid kit with him, because someone had lost it. Maybe him. Or England. He wasn't going to get the wound infected by trying to dig it out with a knife.

"England, are you alright?" His own voice felt too loud in this silence, when he looked up and noticed the older nation.

The Brit was on his knees opposite him. England looked at the sky, but his eyes were closed. Tears made light lines on his dirty face. His grey, red and white leather armor was not as bloody as his. America guessed that he himself looked as weathered and dirty as England.

The younger nation was going to say something, even comfort him if needed, although he knew the British nation had been powerful empire once. Then England opened his eyes, looking down on America.

America's blood froze. His usually bright green eyes were now glinting with insanity. He noticed the dagger in the older nation's hand.

"E-England?" Is everything ok? The dirty blonde haired man wanted to ask, but he couldn't even open his mouth. He knew well that everything wasn't ok. Nothing had ever been ok with them.

"I'm sorry, Alfred." America startled at the use of his human name. England never used it, and vice versa.

"I... Need to fix this." The sandy blonde haired man said again, then started stumbling towards Alfred.

"Hey, what're you doing?" The younger nation asked, a lump of fear rising to his throat.

England didn't answer, just lunged forwards and jabbed at America. America backed off and grabbed at the Brit's hand where the dagger was. The American knew he was stronger than the Brit, but then he was caught by surprise when the green eyed man managed to get out of his grab.

America grunted, when he felt sharp pain at his throat. He lifted his hands to touch his throat and when he looked at his fingers, they were bloody.

"England... Why?" The superpower croaked, his vision turning blurry slowly. Luckily, the wound didn't felt too deep. He should survive from this.

"I have to do this... To get us out." The British nation said hoarsely, his voice almost cracking. He turned the blade towards his own chest.

America understood too late what he was going to do. His eyes widened.

"No!" He shouted, reaching out for England, but he fell on the ground miserably. America coughed and more blood dripped from his mouth. He looked up only to see England thrusting his dagger into his chest. It happened like in slow motion, when his green eyes widened slightly in pain, and when he coughed, blood coloring his chin. He collapsed on the ground and didn't move anymore.

 _"Doesn't that blood look so beautiful on his face?"_

The superpower's vision finally darkened and he felt no more.

 **A drabble.** **That's the only thing I have to say about this.**

 **And I may or may not continue this.**


	2. Chapter 2: France

He heard voices. They were speaking in low tones, like not wanting to wake him up. America opened his eyes, examining his surroundings. He figured out that he was laying on a bed. There was almost nothing in the room where he was, expect a small chair and a bedside table.

 _"Good night, sleeping beauty."_

The North American country lifted his hands to touch his wounds on his chest and throat. The pain had almost subsided, but the wounds were still there. It was weird that the injuries hadn't healed yet.. Maybe he was too far away from his own country. He wasn't sure what happened to a nation who was too long away from its land. Then he remembered what had happened before he passed out. His eyes widened.

"England!" The superpower tried to exclaim, but it came out as a hoarse whisper. Where was he?

 _"He's dead. That simple. And oh, you should be dead too."_

The speaking stopped, and then he heard quiet steps. A man stopped next to his bed and sat down on the chair. America examined his appearence; it was a little sleazy, probably from his work - or at least it looked like it - but his bright brown hair was clean. His eyes were deep blue. He reminded America of someone.

" _Bonjour, monsieur._ _Allez-vous_ _bien?_ " (Good day, mister. Are you feeling alright?) The man asked, smiling gently. To the nation's ears, the language he spoke sounded like French, but he wasn't sure.

"Uhm... I don't understand", he croaked out hesitantly.

" _Est-ce que tu parles français?_ " (Don't you speak French?)

Yep. Definitely French. America shook his head as an answer, even though he didn't understand, but it sounded like a question. The Frenchman changed to English.

"Oh, that's a shame. You don't speak French, the language of love."

 _"Language of death is the only language I speak and understand."_

Now the 'hero' remembered, who reminded him of that person. "France!" He exclaimed, then America slammed his hand against his mouth. Shit, I fucked up, he thought. If he's clever enough to realize, then I will be burned, or then he just think I'm as mad as a hatter.

The man looked confused, then put his hand on the injured nation's forehead. He frowned, when he didn't feel any warmth.

"Yes, we are in France. Do you have a fever?"

America swiped his hand away.

"No! Do you know where Englan-" he managed to stop himself, "I mean Arthur is."

The man looked suspicious, but luckily, he didn't ask anything.

"Who is this 'Arthur'?" The name sounded rougher when the Frenchman said it.

"Big eyebrows, blond hair, green eyes, quite slim, and.. Uh?" The nation grinned helplessly. America didn't remember what he was wearing. Probably something same like him.

"There was no one with you, mister. When we found you, you were alone", the man said, stood up and left, leaving the traveler.

Panic rushed through America, leaving a tingling sensation all over his body. England wasn't here. That was impossible. They were always sent together to their mission, and even though they might separate at some point, they still met each other at the end, but now... Something was wrong. Very wrong. Other than feeling lonely, that is.

 _"Everything is wrong with_ _you,_ _my dearest."_

The man came back, holding a cup which was filled with liquid. When he gave it to America, he drank it quickly - only to cough. He doubled over, feeling tears forming in his eyes.

The man lifted his eyebrows in a surprising manner, like he didn't believe that the immortal didn't like the drink.

"W-what was that?" The American asked, wiping his mouth, grimacing at its taste. The liquid tasted stale, but it warmed pleasantly in his stomach.

"It was wine." The man answered, leaning on the frame of the door.

It was worse than beer, America thought but didn't voice it.

Then he remembered something he should've have asked. Ah, he really was stupid. Or then just oblivious.

"By the way, what's your name?"

"Francis Bonnefoy, in your service", the Frenchman replied and bowed theatrically, looking like he was going to say something, until the nation abruptly yawned.

"And my name's Ame- Alfred F. Jones." Francis frowned again.

"What were you going to say?"

"No-nothing!" America reassured quickly, shaking his head like a small child.

Francis nodded, before they heard a shout from outside. He answered in French, before turning to look at Alfred again.

"I'll leave you to rest. But now, I must go." The Frenchman left, leaving him by himself.

Silence took over the small room.

Alfred closed his eyes, before trying to comprehend what had happened.

First, they had escaped... Something. Or someone. Then, they woke at an empty, muddy battlefield, wearing armors and wielding shields and swords.

America had woken up only to realize he was wounded and to see England trying to kill him and then himself. Everything faded out after that.

 _"Don't you like blood?"_

And now he was here, alone, apparently in France with a person who reminded him of an European nation called France.

How was he - or they - going to get out of here? America didn't even now in what time he was. He could be as well in 14th century or in 19th century.

He just didn't know, and if England had woken up in different place than him, how they would find each other? The longer the mission continued, the bigger the risk to change the future. Or they could get stuck in the past.

 _"And that's why you should give up."_

How could they get back without dying? And what they were even supposed to do? Every mission had a meaning, which was usually told beforehand. But now, it felt like he was walking on a wire with a deep drop below him.

 **That's a question for you, Alfred.**

 **Btw, thanks for the reviews!**

 **My school starts again in few days and for some reason I've been waiting for it.**

 **And, there's nothing romantical in their** **relationship, they're just** **teammates.**


	3. Chapter 3: Russia

An open expanse in front of England was huge. He couldn't see the end of it, just the horizon far away. There was withered grass, stones and bushes here and there - or were those trees? He didn't know. The only thing he knew was that he had a long way to walk ahead. He had to walk until his legs gave in under him. And then walk some more.

If he managed to get up first, that is, without crying in pain and trying to breathe. But when had breathing ever helped to pain, was it then emotional or physical?

The wound on his chest had started healing itself, but the danger of infection was still present. He couldn't die from it, but he could get a nasty flu. Sick nations weren't exactly the best ones to hang out with.

Either way, he couldn't bring himself to care.

 _"When have you ever cared?"_

England groaned quietly and somehow managed to stand up. The world around him spun fast, and he almost fell back on the ground.

Soon the verdigo vanished, leaving him addled. He started walking. It was more like he was dragging himself, but nevertheless, he walked.

So, first he had to know the year. Then he had to find that obnoxious fool, America, and somehow get back to their own time. When he woke up, the American wasn't anywhere near.

Clearly, this couldn't be an ordinary mission. Something went wrong, he knew it. Well, everything was wrong with this from the very beginning. Why was he paired up with America, even though there were better nations?

Not France, though.

But no, he was chosen to be America's partner and vice versa. He didn't want to be his partner, not when he couldn't even understand himself or his feelings. He wasn't into self-examination.

 _"What are you?"_

The Brit sighed. The only things he needed right now was a cup of warm, almost hot, green tea and a book.

The nation looked behind him and to his disappointment, he saw that he hadn't walked a long distance from the small hill he had started. He huffed before continued walking again.

The dagger which had been next to him was now in his belt. It made the British nation feel safe, even though he knew it was just a lie made by his own mind. A dagger couldn't safe anyone from cold, diseases or from one's own mind.

If one didn't count cutting his veins open.

England shook his head to get the dark thoughts, his enemies, everyone's enemies, out of his mind.

 _"What if you don't want to get them out?"_

After he had walked for what seemed like hours, he started feeling exhausted. The Brit took a step and suddenly he found himself laying on his stomach on the ground.

He grunted when he looked up, seeing something shiny in his vision.

It was a small and slighty blue fairy, the first he saw here in this desolate and bleak land. Its two wings were delicate, like its body. England wasn't sure was he hallucinating or was it real.

"Hello?" He asked. The fairy didn't say anything, just smiled.

Its smile was the last thing he saw.

 _OoOo_

The sky above him was dyed with the colors of sunset. The air was chilly, almost cold. The British nation blinked a few times, trying to remember what had happened.

Ah. He had fainted.

 _"Weakling."_

Then he heard speaking - a mixture of sharp esses and long vowels, and of course, consonants. He sat up slowly and noticed that his wound had healed - finally. In past wounds apparently healed slower than in the present moment. He felt no pain, but his uniform was still bloody.

That one voice seemed familiar - he knew he had heard it many times before. Suddenly, the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

The speaker was Ivan, or Russia - if he even was a nation. At least that human - or nation - looked so similar to that Russia he knew that they could be twins. England couldn't... Sense was he a nation or not. He was from the future, after all.

 _"The void beneath you is nothing."_

"Чёрт!" One of the Russians next to Ivan exclaimed, looking pissed off. "Он бодрствующий?"

"Да, Алексей." Ivan answered dryly. Other three men chuckled. It seemed that he was the leader of the group.

"What year, Ivan?" England gasped, watching sharply at the four man in their long coats around him. "What year?"

He had to know. He had to know in order to get them out. If he would first find that American git, that is.

The men looked the nation with foolish expressions, until the shortest one, who was still taller than England, took his small dagger from his belt and pointed it at the Brit's chest. The Brit's hand traveled to his belt, but his dagger wasn't there. The Russian man said something that the nation couldn't understand.

"Не, Павло." The nameless Russian said, glancing at Ivan, whose eyes glinted mysteriously when he stared at the nation. Maybe he knew England was a nation.

"It's 1356." The violet eyed man replied. His English was thick, almost uncomprehensible.

The Brit felt like the air from his lungs was knocked out. He remembered that year and what had happened during that war.

 _"You should be proud."_

"Month? And what place?" His voice sounded weird. If this feeling what he got was right, they were in trouble.

"Мay, and Grand Duchy of Moscow."

Now he remembered it all. He was too occupied with Hundred Years' War to pay attention to other countries. Russia wasn't then Russia, it seems.

Ivan thought something. Then he straightened his hand in order to help England to stand up. The British nation grabbed to his hand and in one swift motion, he was on his feet.

"A deal?" Ivan asked.

England was confused. A deal?

"No one is here by himself, unless he is a traveler. So where are you traveling, англичанин?"

Under the Russian's direct stare, the Brit wondered what to do.

"To France." He finally answered.

Ivan nodded slowly, waiting him to continue.

"Deal." The nation said and the leader of the group and the immortal shook hands.

England wasn't sure to what he'd got himself into.

 **Congratulations, if you understood those names and what they said (in Russian, although I don't know are they right).**

 **S** **ome facts, then. If ya don't know what's a Grand Duchy of Moscow, now ya know, (Mr. President). Grand Duchy of Moscow (1283-1547)** **was a late medieval** **Russian principality centered on Moscow.** **It existed before** **early modern Tsardom of Russia. There were four Grand Dukes althogether: Daniel, Ivan III the Great, Vasili III and Ivan IV (Ivan the Terrible). The people there spoke Old Russian.**

 **I** **read from somewhere that England has a crush on America. (I think it's canon?)**

 **And, you can go google the year 1356 if you want to** **what ha** **ppened then.** **As there read, the Hundred Years' War was on then**

 **(Btw, I spent few days trying to decide should I write in America's POV the whole story or** **alternately** **between England and America like in my other story, but then I finally decided to do like this. Apologies for the small wait.)**


	4. Chapter 4: Sunrise

**Oh, that's a shame :( I wish it could be canon, but at the same time I don't want it to be canon. Hetalia is good as it is without any canon ships. But t** **hanks for telling me, Inky-Paws and Guest (In Internet you don't really know what's true and what's not** )

Next time when America woke up, it seemed like it was an early morning. The sun shone through the curtains, creating a dim lighting in the room. Everything was silent, almost too silent for his liking. To America, silence felt unnatural. Voices had been around him since he was born.

 _"Silence is better. It lets you meet your demons."_

The nation yawned, scretching his limbs. He stood up and tiptoed outside. Something told him that he should be silent. A refreshing, cool wind greeted him like its equal. The sun was just a scratch at the horizon. Some stars still twinkled at the sky, like not wanting to let the sun take over for a day.

The village was different than he imagined it would be. Of course he knew that it would not resemble the large cities of the present day, but it still surprised him. The wooden buildings were small but practical. Some even had chimneys of a some kind. Or maybe they weren't chimneys.

America admired the houses, before walked through the village. Everyone was sleeping. This was the first - and last - time he woke up so early, so he should enjoy from it. He inhaled, letting the air fill his lungs. The bullet was still in his chest, but he wasn't going to dig it up. First, he didn't have any medical things, and second, England was better at 'being a doctor'. And the villagers would probably wonder what he was doing.

The superpower arrived at the edge of the village. There was a hill, and he walked on the top and sat down. He sighed. Sunrises were always so beautiful.

It reminded him of his childhood, where he had had picknicks all by himself. The British Empire had been somewhere else, probably taking care of his nation. Sometimes Canada had joined him and they had talked. Or played.

The nation plucked the grass from the ground. Then, everything between the twins had changed, when America gained his independence. He had tried to get Canada fight for his independence too, but he refused. He remembered being bitter and angry to his brother; he didn't want Canada to suffer under the British control.

Then that rainy day had come. They had won. The high and mighty British Empire was on his knees in front of him, crying and cursing. The hate and bitterness he had felt towards the redcoats had drained from him to the ground with rain. The independent nation couldn't shoot him.

 _"Such a cruel person, are you?"_

The rebels which fought beside him had tried to get him to shoot his big brother, but he refused. Instead he turned on his heels and left. The tears had threatened to spill, but he refused to show weakness. At least the two nations were equal now.

A smirk appeared to his face. He remembered the enemy soldiers he'd shot with his musket. In an instant, the smirk vanished. He shouldn't feel happy from killing.

He still felt guilt for all terrible things he'd done. The atomic bombs, Vietnam war... America could name many more battles of his life.

 _"Maybe you really are crazy? You feel guilt for killing people who aren't yours."_

And sometimes... He felt like Atlas, a titan who had to carry the world on his shoulders. Being a superpower isn't just dancing on roses; he had learned it the hard way.

"I used to come here at mornings when the sun rose." America startled. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Francis. The Frenchman didn't look tired, instead looked lively and perky, like he'd had a bath and after it a massage. The nation grimaced; he himself felt like a zombie.

He desperately needed a cup of coffee.

He nodded hesitantly. Francis smiled shortly and sat down next to America. He turned his face to watch the sunrise.

The traveler nodded, doing the same.

"How come you are walking by now? You were in a...", Francis gestured vaguely with his hands, "bad shape."

America didn't know how to explain his abnormal healing abilities. Of course he knew he couldn't just drop the bomb and say he was an immortal from the future.

"Maybe I'm just lucky", the North American nation flashed his brightest fake smile. Francis didn't press the subject, just frowned.

The next few moments went by in silence. The nation felt like he should ask something, but he didn't remember exactly _what_ he should ask. Then it hit him.

"What year is it?"

Francis hesitated for a second, like trying to recall something. Doubt and uncertainty shined in his eyes.

"It's 1356", he replied.

Nothing. That year said nothing to him. Maybe because he didn't exist then; or then he hadn't listened those boring stories before he had born.

The Frenchman must've seen his confused expression, because he looked just as confused as him.

" _Tu_.. Don't you know what year is it? Don't you know what is happening?"

America knew he was walking on thin ice. He couldn't tell Francis what he was and from where he was. It wasn't even an option. If he would tell, England or Germany would strangle him with their own hands.

The superpower swallowed, feeling nervous. The Frenchman still looked at him with an unreadable expression, like considering different options.

"I.." He looked down and realized that his armor from yesterday was still on. On the leather breastplate, there was a bullethole. He brushed it.

"There are some things I can't tell you, Francis. And I think you're right." America shrugged. "I didn't know the year and I don't _what_ ishappening."

The Frenchman looked thoughtful. After a moment, he answered.

"A war is waging between my homeland and England."

"What a surprise", America rolled his eyes. It sometimes felt like the two European nations were fighting nonstop half of the time and half of the time doing something else.

Francis nodded gently as a sign of agreement. Then he stood up.

"Others should be awake by now", he said. The immortal grinned before standing up too. They started walking back to the village, chattering at the same time.

Suddenly, America realized that he should not befriend the Frenchman too strongly. It was an unwritten between nations that they shouldn't form strong friendships with humans. Their lifespans were usually short, hardly a fraction of a nation's lifetime.

 _"Did you forget Davie?"_

Behind them, sun rose and continued its everlasting journey through the sky.

 **Soo...** **A new chapter. It seems that last time I updated this was** **7.11. Where did the time go?**

 **My motivation tends to vanish suddenly but it comes (always?) back. That happened. Again** **. It's annoying-**

 **T** **his chapter is quite uneventful** **, but don't worry!** **Soon should happen something... At least I think so.**

 **(I had a math exam** **today** **and I'm not sure how it went)**


End file.
